


prince of thieves | dreamnotfound

by cairparavels



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Abuse, Fluff and Angst, George is trying his best, M/M, No Smut, Others to be added - Freeform, What if dream was a prince and George was a thief, Wilbur is a bard, alex is the son of a councilman and just a general nuisance, and what if I have no idea what I’m doing ahahahah and then what, and what if this story was inspired by Robin Hood and Cinderella, dream and his father are similar to arther and uther in the hit show merlin, dueling anyone???, fundy is a pickpocket, i will sprinkle in a lil romance as a treat, ida is the stepsister but she is an oc and based off of no one, if anyone hurt purpled I would kill everyone in the room and then myself, if no other parent got me i know philza minecraft got me, karl is a scribe, kingdom au, lots of influence from sporadic fairytales im a pisces venus let me have this pls, minx and kaceytron as the fairy godmothers, philza is a former friar but he got married and had wilbur, prince AU, protective!dream, sam is the royal messenger, sapnap is a guard, soft moments, the leo is gonna pop out of dream and the water sign is gonna pop out of George muah perfection, tommy and tubbo want to be squires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:35:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28730562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cairparavels/pseuds/cairparavels
Summary: when the never-before-seen prince dream announces a ball to celebrate his coming of age and to find a spouse, george knows it’s the perfect opportunity to rob the man blind.orthe smp as robin hood and his merry men, and dream as prince charming.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound
Comments: 12
Kudos: 56





	1. from hell to breakfast

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: this is an au. in no way am i claiming dnf is real, nor am i claiming that any of the ccs act like this. i will also be character building the other smp members, and also a few other ccs like justaminx and kaceytron.
> 
> ocs in this story are not made after anyone and any resemblance is pure coincidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You who so plod amid serious things that you feel it shame to give yourself up even for a few short moments to mirth and joyousness in the land of Fancy; you who think that life hath not to do with innocent laughter that can harm no one; these pages are not for you.“ — Howard Pyle, The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood

George curses at the morning wind and draws his cloak closer to his body. He’ll never fully understand morning people, especially during the winter, when ice layers the ground and causes a slippery trail towards the coop.

And the coop is so loud in the morning, with all the roosters shouting their greetings. George blinks until his sleepy eyes feel awake. He takes a small basket off of its hook and opens the door to the coop. “Alright, ladies, you know the drill.”

He collects the eggs with ease, aside from cold mud seeping into the soles of his worn down shoes. He doesn’t want to think about why the mud is wet in the coop as opposed to frozen like the rest of the ground.

He grumbles to himself and toes his shoes off as soon as he steps into the house.

It’s a weekend, thank goodness. His only chores on weekends are cooking and babysitting his half brothers. The second of which, he can do away from his horrific home.

He sticks more logs into the fireplace and places an iron skillet over the flame. He does his routine. One he’s sure he could do in his sleep by now. Five eggs, sunny side up. Two pieces of toast. Some butter on the toast. Five glasses of water from the well.

Tubbo is the first to wake up. George musses his hair as he sits down. “Eat. Did you have a good sleep?”

“Yeah,” Tubbo grins, spritely. “Are we going to see Phil today?”

“Probably.”

“I like Phil. He lets me and Tommy ride his horses.”

“Stop talking about it here,” George mumbles. “You know the rules.”

“Yeah, I know,” Tubbo frowns. He shovels a forkful of eggs into his mouth and swings his legs back and forth under the table. 

Even though he’s almost seventeen, he still acts so childish sometimes. Maybe it’s because George has seen him grow up, and he can’t think of his little brothers as anything other than just that… little.

Tommy stomps downstairs, already fully dressed. He eats standing up, bouncing from one foot to the other and humming to himself. He’s not much of a morning person either, but he always makes up for it by the afternoon. 

By the time the two are done eating and run back upstairs to grab their cloaks and warmest socks, George’s stepmother comes down, wrinkling her nose. “I’m assuming my breakfast has been served cold, due to your unwise timing.”

George feels a familiar shiver run down his spine. It’s different than being cold, and it’s the same as being caught doing something you shouldn’t. George wants to counter that he tried, but he doesn’t want to start an argument. He bristles subtly at the rudeness. “Sorry, Stepmother. I’ll make it later tomorrow.”

“No need,” Stepmother shoves the plate away. “Perhaps I’ll go into town for a few days just to experience some fine dining again. Your sister had the right idea to go on a trip during this god awful winter. I’ll never forgive your no-good father for leaving me without a maid. I reckon I’d be better off without your help.”

“Shall I take my leave, then?” George can’t help but say. He raises his eyebrows and dares his stepmother to do something. Anything that would give him a real reason to get out and never turn back. 

“Watch your mouth, boy. If I hear another smart thing out of your mouth I’ll smack the smirk right off of your lips.”

He knows she isn’t exaggerating. “Yes, Stepmother.”

-

Wilbur is at Phil’s house when George drops the boys off. He’s interested in why the bard is sitting outside his father’s house, plucking some truly wretched tune on his lute. “Tommy! Tubbo!”

The boys greet him happily, Tommy starting up a quick banter, and George walks into the house. “Phil! I’m going to head out! I’ll be back before nightfall! Thanks for taking care of the boys!”

The man steps out from the top of the stairs and leans against the wooden railing. “Heard Alexis has some news from the castle. The rumored Dreamy Prince might be showing his face soon.”

“Wonderful,” George drones. “A face to place with the man who drains our resources.”

Phil tsks in a very father-like fashion. It makes George miss his own. “He’s not king yet. We don’t know if he’ll be like his father.”

“Oh, don’t bring up your friar beliefs now.” George laughs. “You gave them up to marry Kristen.”

“It’s easy to give up things when you’re in love. Being in love gives you something to believe in.”

George almost openly gags, but he really doesn’t want to be disrespectful. “Whatever. How much do I owe you for today?”

“No alms. Just some town gossip about the prince. I’m really interested in what Alexis has found out. Oh, and take Wilbur with you. His awful singing is scaring away my birds.”

It’s a joke of course, because Wilbur is a lovely singer when he wants to be. He studied music with the bards up on the mountain near Nottingham. But when resting, he likes to put on obnoxious voices.

“I’ll take him.”

It really doesn’t take much to get Wilbur to follow him, especially considering Wilbur is just as interested in hearing Alexis’ weekly news from the castle. There’s something so wonderful about being friends with the son of a council member. 

Alexis is all hands. He’s loud when they find him at their camp in Sherwood Forest, past the mulberry bushes and the places knights won’t go. He’s got his navy blue cape on, and he’s hopping from trunk to fallen trunk, singing some fatal shanty while Karl laughs from his place with his scrolls.

“You’ve got ink on your chin,” George greets the scribe first. “Writing fast again?”

“Alexis has so much to tell us. I had to get started on a plot right away.”

“A coup!” Alexis says, ever so invested in the legality of the system.

Thank God, honestly, because without his extensive knowledge of the law, they’d never have figured out how to get around it. “What’s happened?”

“Prince Dream is hosting a ball.” Karl supplies as Alexis finally sits down, bumping shoulders with the scribe.

“Going to find himself a spouse before his coronation, ey?” Alexis wriggles his eyebrows and then makes a lewd joke under his breath towards Karl, who giggles immaturely.

“What does that have to do with us?” George feels an itch of impatience. 

“Word around Sherwood is he’s inviting everyone. He’s not just looking for a spouse. He’s looking for people he could train to be his knights.”

“Everyone?”

“Oh yeah,” Alexis nods. “Common people. You can steal so much shit.” 

“Me?” 

“Well I’m a well-known bard around here,” Wilbur interjects. “I can steal from Nottingham easily enough, but Sherwood folk will recognize me and give me up if there’s any sort of reward for my capture. And Alexis is the son of a councilman. Karl is the worst at sneaking around—”

“Hey!”

“—so you’re really all that’s left. No one has any idea who you are, and you can lie your way out of any situation. It’s genius.”

“You’re forgetting I probably won’t even be allowed to go.” George says. He slumps onto a log, and feels a splinter immediately cut his upper thigh. 

“Oh yeah,” Alexis wrinkles his nose. “Evil Stepmother and all.”

“She’s not evil,” George defends, though he doesn’t know why. “She’s just… I’m not her kid, so it’s different.”

“Whatever,” Karl scoffs, ruddy cheeks puffed out in what looks like anger. At George? For George? 

George has no idea. “Let’s see if I even get an invitation first. If we can figure out how to sneak past my Stepmother, then I’ll try.”

“Imagine the money of robbing a prince.” Alexis sighs and leans back against a tree that — surprisingly — hasn’t fallen. “We could get out of Sherwood. All of us. And Phil, and Tommy, and Tubbo. Hell, I’d do anything.”

George thinks he would too.

-

Dream finishes pressing his own personal seal into the last of the invitations and pushes the pile of envelopes away from him. “Sapnap!”

“You’re done. Good.” His guard stalks toward him and uses his arm to shovel the invitations into a burlap sack. “Sam is going to have a hell of a day giving all of these out.”

Dream blinks back his fatigue and thinks of the poor messenger. “Maybe I should help him.”

“Good idea,” Sapnap runs his fingers through his brown hair, freshly cut for the ball. “Sending the prince into Sherwood without any protection.”

“They wouldn’t know it’s me,” Dream counters. “No one knows what I look or sound like, remember?”

“Well, yes,” Sapnap bites his lip, but ultimately agrees. “I suppose it would be quite entertaining to see their faces when they realize their messenger from the castle was the prince himself.”

“You can come with me,” Dream says. “We’ll cut Sam’s work in half.”

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” Sapnap says. He heaves the sack over his shoulders. “You just want to see the village.”

Dream lowers his voice to a murmur. “You said it yourself last time you went to visit your family. It’s getting bad.”

“Well, thank your father’s taxes for that,” Sapnap says, lighthearted in his voice, but the words sit heavy on Dream’s conscience.

“I’m going to change it. As soon as I’m king, it won’t be so bad.” Dream promises. He wonders if it’s even possible after all the damage that’s been done.

He wonders if one can build out of the ashes of something that’s already been burned. He wonders if he can reverse all the damage his father has done. He wonders if his mother could ever be proud of him.

“Cheer up,” Sapnap says. “You’ll meet new people tomorrow. It’ll be okay.”

Dream dry swallows. “Sure. It’ll be okay.


	2. don’t shoot the messenger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “An I must drink sour ale, I must, but never have I yielded to a man before, and that without would or mark upon my body. Nor, when I bethink me, will I yield now.” — Howard Pyle, The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood

George stirs the stew. It’s chicken broth and vegetables, and it’s in a large pot outside of Phil’s home. He’s not a friar anymore, but he still shares his resources with Sherwood on most afternoons. 

George appreciates his little job, especially because the steam from the stew is keeping him warm. Plus, it keeps him out of the house for a few hours while his Stepmother goes on her daily shopping sprees. He wonders why she squanders his father’s money, when she could be helping her sons. Tubbo and Tommy deserve a better place to live, at the least. Not to mention the amount of money she gives to Ida, her daughter before her second marriage. George reckons his step sister gets treated better than the ladies in the castle do.

Phil has got a bunch of people sitting in the grass outside his yard, talking about their woes and issues. Mostly money issues, but that’s nothing new. Phil gives everyone wise words, prays over a few others, and talks them into staying for lunch.

Wilbur is sitting with George’s half brothers, plucking whatever tune they ask him to. It amuses them, and George is thankful they have someone so willing to befriend them. He wonders if he could ever be half as good of a brother as Wilbur seems to be. 

“Is the man or woman of the home here?” It’s a new voice appearing from the bottom of the small hill.

George looks up to answer and point the man in the right direction, but his voice gets caught in his throat.

The man is tall, with sandy hair brushing over his eyes. They’re green — his eyes, that is. George can see them when the man walks closer. He’s wearing a green hood, and leather gauntlets that look way too expensive to be bought in any village around here.

“Who are you?” Wilbur calls out. While he’s distracted, Tommy steals his lute.

“I’m a royal messenger. I have invitations to give out.” The man replies almost shyly. His peony lip is caught behind his teeth, and he avoids everyone’s gaze.

“Is mine there?” Wilbur straightens up. “Wilbur Soot?”

“Uh, give me a minute.” The messenger sorts through his sack, and after an unbearably awkward moment, pulls out an envelope. “Here. Wilbur Soot.”

Wilbur takes off his brown sock cap and does a feigning curtsy towards the man. “Thanks, Love. Reckon you’ll want to grab everyone else’s while you’re here. My father, Phil, is the man of the house by the way. He’s over there waxing poetic about God or something.”

George pulls his hood down lower, and he tells himself it’s because he’s cold, not because he can feel the warmth in his own cheeks. The last thing he wants is to be noticed; seen.

The messenger asks for names and hands out invitations. “The prince is looking for a council, as well as a table of knights. You have the opportunity to prove yourself at the festival. It’s three days long, and there will be games and food. Children are also allowed, but not to the jousts obviously.”

“I thought the prince was going to find a spouse,” Tommy says unabashedly. Tubbo laughs and slaps him with his invitation.

“No, I— Well, the prince prefers to find a spouse naturally, so I’m sure whatever you’re hearing are just rumors.” The messenger’s voice seems strained, like maybe he’s tired of talking to a bunch of misfits on top of a hill. His tanned jaw is tight. 

“George,” George breaks the silence. “Is there an invitation for me?”

The messenger looks at him, green eyes and all, and his voice suddenly goes soft. “George?”

“That’s my name,” George asserts, pushing down his attraction and holding out his hand.

The messenger shifts through the bag and pulls one out. It’s bent at the corner. “Sorry about that. I guess a sack isn’t very protective.”

“‘T’s fine,” George says. He grabs the invitation quickly, careful not to touch the messenger’s hand. “Thanks.”

“Of course, yeah. I- We all hope to see you guys there.”

“Have you seen the prince?” Tubbo asks, and this time he’s the one who gets hit with an invitation. “Like genuinely? Is he really a dream or is that just a lie the king made up?”

The messenger laughs. “I’ve seen him, yes. Too often, maybe. I suppose he’s handsome to some, and not handsome to others.”

“Does he look like you?” George blurts, and he thinks maybe he should stick himself in the boiling pot and let death overtake him. His stepmother is right, and he speaks far too much out of turn. He’s too honest, too blunt. It’s uncomfortable for everyone around him.

“Does he— uh, I dunno. What do I look like?” The messenger laughs awkwardly. 

Everyone is staring at him. The messenger, with confusion. Phil, with pity, and Wilbur, with a smirk. Tubbo and Tommy have ripped open their invitations and are reading through them, already bored of George’s woes.

“Hands—” George starts, but he’s interrupted by a brown haired man, racing up the hill. 

“Hey! Thought I lost you.” The new boy looks at the messenger, and then to George. “Is everything okay?” 

The messenger wets his lips and looks away from George. “Yeah! Just sent out the last of the invitations.”

“Great, I have a boy named Karl, and then I’m done.”

“We can get it to Karl. He hangs out around here,” Phil says. His presence is trustworthy enough, so they hand over the invitation without much consideration. “Would you two like to stay for lunch? It’s a long way back to the castle.”

The first messenger looks from Phil, to the second messenger, to George. “We should probably go.” He grabs the second messenger's sleeve and pulls him away, not sparing a glance back.

“What the hell was that?” Wilber grabs his lute back from the boys and points the neck at George. “Answer.”

“What was what?” George feigns ignorance.

“The sexual tension between you and that royal messenger. You called him handsome, for God’s sake.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in God,” Tommy butts in obnoxiously.

George shrugs. “I didn’t mean to. It just came out. It’s not a big deal.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Shut up, or you get no stew.”

Wilbur grins and backs off but George knows the damage is done. 

“I’m going to be a knight,” Tubbo announces proudly. “For Prince Dreamy.”

“Me too,” Tommy says. “I wonder if he gets lots of women.”

George rolls his eyes at his brothers. “We have to see what your mother even says about us attending. I’m sure she’ll have Ida attend. Perhaps our dear sister will become queen.”

“Right,” Tommy frowns. “Well, if you can’t go, we’ll bring you back some cake.”

“Or a trinket!” Tubbo says. “I learned how to pickpocket!”

“What? Tubbo!” George looks to Phil for an explanation.

The former friar only shrugs and replies. “Fundy came over the other day. Sly fox.”

“Indeed,” George murmurs. “Maybe Fundy can go in my place.” He looks pointedly towards Wilbur, hoping to get the point across. 

Fundy is an amazing thief, and it’s true, he can’t lie for shit, but George doesn’t know what they’ll do if he can’t go. They need this money. It’s getting colder, and they need food and warmth.

“Don’t worry, George.” Wilbur begins to play a love song. “We’ll make sure you meet the handsome stranger again.”

-

“What was that?”

“What was what?” Dream fights the nerve to run faster than he already has. He slows down and tries to level his breathing. “I’m just ready to go home.”

“What did that guy say to you?” Sapnap slaps Dream on the back. Harshly. “ ‘ He say something mean? Scare ya? Sherwood folk can be a bit abrasive.”

“Not quite,” Dream mumbles. He scratches his chest. “He called me handsome. Well, he started to.” 

Sapnap snorts. Then he folds, laughing and slapping Dream even harder. “You freaked out over a compliment? Maybe you aren’t ready to show your face to people.”

“No, it’s different,” Dream tries to explain, but he can’t come up with the right words. “He was— I dunno, he was sincere. Like, he had no idea who I was and he wasn’t trying to flatter me. Actually, it seemed like he didn’t even mean for it to come out.”

“So you like that he embarrassed himself?”

“No!” Dream unclips his left gauntlet so he can scratch at his palm. He feels weird and itchy for some reason. “It was just nice.”

“Maybe he likes you,” Sapnap says casually, and it really isn’t something to be casual about, Dream decides.

“Likes me? Are you daft?”

“I’m just throwing out possibilities. He’ll be at the ball, right? You should ask him to dance or something.”

“We’re wearing masks, remember? I’m not revealing my face until the final night?” Dream isn’t sure he wants to reveal his face to anyone anymore.

“Oh yeah,” Sapnap rolls his eyes. “The intrigue and all.”

Dream doesn’t think there’s anything intriguing about his face, but his father thinks the curiosity will bring in nosey nobles from neighboring kingdoms. He is suddenly reminded of what that younger kid had asked. “Do you think father is going to make me marry someone?”

Out of all the choices his father has taken from him, he never even considered that love would be one of them. “Oh, God,” he feels sick. “If even the people fo Sherwood know about it, it’s got to be true. He’s going to auction me off.”

“That’s quite a harsh way of putting it.” Sapnap mumbles. “I’m sure you’ll get final say.”

“Right,” Dream drawls. “As long as it’s a lady who can give me heirs, or a prince so wealthy I wouldn’t even need an heir. Anyone he can take from, he’ll give to me.”

“Breathe, Dream,” Sapnap warns. “You’re safe right now, okay? All you can do is have a good time at the festival, focus on the knight competitions, and meet some new people. You don’t have to do anything right now.”

Dream wonders if anyone knows what it’s like to live with a heel pressed into your back. To be pushed down and silenced over and over again. He thinks of that man — George — staring at him warily. Steely brown eyes, guarded like his. He wonders what it would be like to see him at the festival; if George would be disappointed that he’s the prince. 

(If he would even care.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: this is an au. in no way am i claiming dnf is real, nor am i claiming that any of the ccs act like this. i will also be character building the other smp members, and also a few other ccs like justaminx and kaceytron.
> 
> ocs in this story are not made after anyone and any resemblance is pure coincidence


	3. a bad apple spoils the barrel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No matter how your heart is grieving, if you keep on believing, the dream that you wish can come true.” — Cinderella, Cinderella

Ida returns days before the festival, and her shrill voice had almost been forgotten by George. She flounces around, dressed only in her petticoat as the seamstresses try fruitlessly to get her measurements. “I can’t believe by this time next week, I might be princess of Nottingham.”

George rolls his eyes and continues to sweep the floor. “There are a million other choices, Ida.”

“And what if he likes men?” Tubbo pipes up. He’s perched near the window, watching a few bees buzz around the windowsill garden. 

“Perhaps he likes both,” Tommy says. Then, teasingly, “And you have two times the competition.”

“Shut up,” Ida growls towards the two younger boys. She looks towards her mother, who is reading over their invitations. “Mother, tell them if they keep teasing me, they won’t get to go.”

“Children,” Stepmother frowns. “Leave your step sister alone.”

“Half sister, Mum,” Tubbo says. 

“I’m about to disown you,” Ida growls, but when she reaches out to pinch Tubbo’s shoulder, she’s smiling. 

George aches to be teased like that. He knows Ida keeps her distance because they aren’t related at all. And George is treated like the help; has been since he was ten. It’s not like Ida ever knew to treat him like a brother. Her mother never treated him like a son. Ida never really bonded with him the way she bonded with her actual half brothers. But George digresses, because it’s the same the other way around. 

He’s not very good at being a brother.

He escapes outside, and the winter breeze brings air into his lungs like finding water in a dry land. He sighs, relieved, open, less upset that he is nothing but an outsider everywhere, even in his own house.

He grabs a rake leaning against the ivy-ridden wall and drags it over the grass and dead leaves, hoping that from the window it looks like he’s actually doing something. He’d hate to be bothered during his self-loathing time.

“What a c—” Minx, the seamstress’ assistant, runs into George on her way out. Like, actually into him, knocking the rake out of his hand. “Sorry, George. I just couldn’t be in there any longer.”

“I get it,” he says, and leaves the rest up for interpretation. “You haven’t been to the woods in awhile.”

Minx rolls her eyes. There’s kohl, dark and smooth, drawn on to look like the eyes of a cat. Needle-sharp, and George wonders if she knows how scary she can be. “This stupid festival has been kicking my arse. Every seamstress for miles has got their hands full because spoiled brats refuse to wear anything not custom. Doesn’t help that our boss takes the majority of our pay.”

“That sucks,” George offers. He’s horrible at comfort.

“Yeah,” Minx breathes. “But it’s whatever. I had to put my menswear line on hold. I’m trying to mix sexy with majestic with badass. I just need a few models.”

“Good luck with that.”

“You wanna come smoke with me? Kacey nicked some pipe-weed from a caravan to Nottingham.” Minx has this wicked smile on her face, and George knows those two girls bring out the best in each other. He longs for a friendship like that.

“I better stay home.” He wishes he could go. “Stepmother doesn’t really like when I leave the house.”

“You’re going to the festival, though.” Minx says it like a command. Like she wants the entire village to hear her.

George shrugs. “Depends on her mood the day of, I suppose.”

Minx finishes her curse word from before, this time aiming it at his stepmother, and gives George a mocking salute. Then she yanks open the iron wrought fence and stomps away.

Her presence is replaced by a boy, no younger than Tubbo. “Hey, Purpled.”

“Hey,” the boy says. He’s a squire from Nottingham. An official squire, but he does some work for the Merry Men every once in a while.

Somehow he agreed to get inside information from the castle, just like Alexis. They’re both in charge of figuring out the guard schedule and where the goods are hidden.

George thinks this kid is incredibly brave, but he also wishes they didn’t have to put their life on the line to survive. How messed up can they be? A band of men and women who steal from the rich and give to the poor. Only the rich take and take so much that the poor can barely find their footing. 

“So here’s all you need to know from my observations,” Purpled slips an envelope into George’s vest the same time he leans around him to grab the rake from the ground. “Dropped this,” he mumbles.

All these kids, so good at lying, stealing, and covering their tracks. 

If there is a God like Phil says, would he weep for these children? Or would he hate them for the sins they so often commit. If it’s for survival, does it count? And do the wants of the rich outweigh the needs of the poor?

“Thanks,” he mumbles. “You should go in and say hi to Tubbo and Tommy. We’ve got cookies, too, and I’m sure Ida will give you more than enough. She’s good at doting.” It’s true. Despite her being spoiled, she still shares little things with those she seems vulnerable. Mostly, teenagers and kids. George finds this attribute redeemable on all accounts.

When Purpled returns out, he slips a fresh cookie into the palm of George’s hand. “She gave me too much,” he says, holding up a bag, but the redness of his cheeks tells George that he’s trying to be nice without being noticed.

_Aren’t we all?_

-

Bad hums as he goes over the reservation list for those who want to become knights. “We definitely have enough for squires. Lots of young boys and girls in Sherwood especially.”

Dream tosses the uneaten apple Bad has brought him into the air. He catches it and takes a bite. Sweetness explodes on his tongue and he wonders how Bad always knows which apples are the best of the orchard.

He’s laying on his bed, eyes tracing the golden thread of his canopy. “That’s good,” he mumbles. “Anyone for councilmen?”

“Just the usual Nottingham nobles who always apply- Wait. Here’s a new name: Alexis of Sherwood. He’s the son of one of our councilmen, isn’t he?”

“Then I don’t want him,” Dream decides. “I need people who are advocating for change. This current council needs to go.”

“You should at least hear him out,” His advisor, always the logical one, replies. “We should scope out some people from Sherwood during the festival. Figure out where their beliefs are.”

Dream takes another bite of his apple and lets the juice trail down his chin. He leaves it there a second too long, and when he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, sticky residue remains. He takes another bite. “You know, I don’t think they have apple trees down in Sherwood.”

“They have their native mulberry bushes,” Bad says. He adjusts his glasses and scribbles something down. “As long as they can keep the wildlife away.”

“We should plant an orchard in Sherwood,” Dream thinks aloud, “and people should be able to take as much fruit as they want.”

“Should I put that in the ideas-if-our-king-suddenly-grows-a-heart notebook, Sire?” 

Dream laughs at Bad’s monotonous voice. “Yes, please.”

“Have you thought about the ball, yet?”

Bad’s question is simple enough, but Dream can’t formulate an answer. Of course he’s thought about it, but thinking about the ball means thinking about his face reveal, and his coronation, and how his father wants him to start a courtship that very night.

He recalls his father’s words when he had asked him. “Father, some people are saying you expect me to find a spouse during this ball?”

“I’m not only expecting it, I demand it,” His father had stated, picking at his teeth with a golden toothpick. “You have a weak mind, son. It’d do you good to marry someone who isn’t afraid to make the tough choices of a king.”

So yes, he’s thought about it. Though never in a way Bad would approve of. Bad has this idea about love — arranged or not — that is just so removed from the life of a prince. Dream is starting to realize that as long as he is under his father’s thumb, he can’t marry for love. He can’t do anything for love. Only for money.

The apple turns sour. Dream lets it fall out of his hand and roll to the floor. The brown and bruised spots face the ceiling. Sullied, like his own mind.

He decides to lie. “Yes, I’m very excited.”

-

As the sun goes down, Dream paces back and forth in the garden, finding solace in the shadows of the hedges. Shadows don’t disappear just because he’s a prince. Beneath them, he’s just another soul encased in darkness. It’s better that way.

It’s better that no one can see the prince cry, thoughts of a forced married rolling over and over in his brain. Love was all he had. Love was going to be the one thing he had control over, and now it’s tainted by his father. Once again, a king cannot be defied, and Dream is left wishing for a life far, far away, where people marry for love and don’t worry about money. Where they don’t worry about power.

Gosh… what would life be if he were one of those men in Sherwood, drinking stew and singing together. He’s not naive enough to believe that they have it all figured out. He knows his father’s tax demands better than anyone. He knows there’s a reason so many people crowd around a single pot of stew. Why half of them don’t have proper cloaks for winter. Why they have no heating systems or plumbing like Nottingham does.

But they have the choice of loving who they want. So, Dream is jealous. 

He keeps walking, liking the sound of his boots crunching over dead leaves. The fountain faintly trickles, turned off for the night. Dream wonders how many wishes have been thrown in; how many have come true.

He digs into his pocket and pulls out a shilling. Holding it between his palms, he presses his hands to his lips and closes his eyes. “I wish for true love.”

And when the shilling is tossed into the water, Dream feels some of the heaviness in his heart ebb away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: this is an au. in no way am i claiming dnf is real, nor am i claiming that any of the ccs act like this. i will also be character building the other smp members, and also a few other ccs like justaminx and kaceytron.
> 
> ocs in this story are not made after anyone and any resemblance is pure coincidence


	4. washing one’s dirty linen in public

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Take that ironing and have it back in an hour! One hour, you hear?” — Drizella, Cinderella

George scrubs at a pan with a green sponge, eyeing the clear creek water that’s about to be ruined with food residue. 

Alexis hops from stone to stone, barefooted, singing some song George isn’t familiar with. His brown skin shines beneath the sun, and the blue of his jerkin makes him seem like royalty. George could definitely see him in a castle, demanding change and helping others.

And he has the opportunity to represent himself at the festival and try to become an actual sergeant-at-law. The stakes are heavy, and Alexis is the only non-councilman who has applied.

“My letter said Nottingham is going to send out a few messengers to see if anyone else will apply,” Alexis is so excited, he slips on a rock and drops his foot into the creek, laughing all the way. “This is amazing news. If the prince wants to appoint his own sergeant-at-law, it means he’s opposing something of his father’s. And if he’s looking for help in Sherwood, it most likely has to do with the people of Sherwood and their rights.”

George hums. “That’s amazing, Alexis. But how many of us have been educated on the law? I mean, you’re a special case because you’re a noble. We don’t all have the same education.”

Alexis frowns. “Maybe that’s what we can fight for. Better education.”

“I’d prefer better wages,” George mutters. He tosses the last clean dish in his carrying basket and clamps the lid shut. He straps it on his back and glances at the younger boy, so filled with hope. “I hope he picks you, Alexis. I know you would make Sherwood proud.”

The sun rises on Alexis’ smile.

-

When George arrives back at his home, well past noon, huffing and puffing, he swings open the gates to see none other than the messenger from the other day, standing in the doorway and talking to Stepmother. 

He tries to sneak towards the back door without interrupting, until a voice calls for him. “George!” It’s Tubbo. Of course it’s sweet Tubbo, who can’t read a room.

Tubbo squeezes past both the messenger and his mother. “Tommy and I are going to become squires!”

George looks up, and his breath catches once again — not from the exertion of his walk, but from the green in the messengers eyes. He’s staring at George, that same tightness in his jaw. George looks back down just as quickly, to address Tubbo. “That’s amazing,” he says, ruffling the boy’s hair. You guys deserve it after all of those page years.”

“George,” Stepmother addresses. “Do go inside before you embarrass this household.”

George refrains from rolling his eyes, and heads towards the back door. He stacks all the dishes and puts them away. His mind is reeling; his cheeks are red with embarrassment. It’s not like the messenger would think he’s anything but a servant, but for once it would’ve been nice to keep his home life separated from the person he wants to be.

He stalls for twenty minutes while he loads the basket up with clothes this time. He grabs the washboard and pretends it takes a long time to tie it to his basket. 

Finally, when he assumes the messenger has made his way out of the neighborhood, he walks out. He swings open the gate and jumps, startled.

The messenger is leaning against the cobblestone wall, fiddling with a stick. “Good, you’re here!”

George stops, stares at the man. “Um. Hi..?”

“You can call me Clay,” the messenger says. He drops the stick and holds out a hand, gloved in leather. “I wanted to ask if you’re alright.”

Clay. He wants to roll the synonym around his tongue until he knows it by memory. “I’m fine,” he bristles. “Why did you wait for me?”

Clay twists his fingers, “I’m supposed to be finding men or women to apply for sergeant-at-law. The uh, prince doesn’t like the current candidates.”

George thinks of Alexis. “Why not?”

“He just wants different people. Anyways, have you ever considered it?”

“Being a lawyer?” George scoffs. “I couldn’t even be a clergyman with my educational background.”

Clay frowns. His eyebrows pinch, and George wants to reach up and smooth them out. “What do you mean? Those boys back there— they’re registered pages.”

“Yeah, they have private tutors from Nottingham. They don’t get their education in Sherwood.”

“Why not?”

George feels annoyed. “Once we turn fourteen, we work. We can’t go to school and earn money, so we give school up. Even Tubbo and Tommy are a little behind. They should be squires by now, but Nottingham doesn’t validate education in Sherwood. They had to get verification that their tutoring was from Nottingham.”

“That’s what it takes?” Clay looks shocked. “Really?”

“Sherwood is not anywhere close to Nottingham when it comes to the economy,” George says, voice straight. “I’m not really interested in talking about it.”

He trudges on towards the creek, ignoring the burning on his neck. He knows Clay is following him, and it’s annoying. It’s annoying because he doesn't like being seeked out. He doesn’t like being singled out, and he doesn’t like seeming ungrateful.

And he shouldn’t be talking to anyone from Nottingham this close to the festival. He’s about to pull off the biggest heist of his life and one description of his face is enough for Clay to bring him in for reward money.

He shivers. 

“What are you interested in?” Clay catches up to him. He speaks over the creek water, wanting to be heard. Demanding to be heard, like some kind of royalty. 

George drops the basket onto the bank and sits down to untie the washboard. “I dunno. Don’t have much time to be interested in anything.”

“Any books? Sports? Games?” Clay sits down right beside him, and takes the washboard from his hands. “I’ll clean, you talk.”

George stares at him, wondering if this is some sort of trap set by his Stepmother. Maybe that’s what they were talking about earlier. Well, aside from the squire thing.

George wonders if he can trust Clay. “Archery,” he risks it. “I’m good at it.”

“You have a bow?”

“No,” George shakes his head. 

Clay hands him a clean skirt to rinse and wring out. “How do you know you’re any good?”

“My friend, Fundy, has a bow. I use it when I visit him.”

“I suck at archery,” Clay admits. A sheepish smile covers his rouge lips, making him look more like a kid and less like a noble. “My father hates it because I’m the- I mean, you know, a noble is supposed to know these things. But my aim is horrific.”

“You have to focus on where you want the arrow to land, not the arrow itself,” George says. Thinks of the whistle of an arrow passing by his cheek. The freeform feeling that comes when you fell an apple with just an arrow.

“I usually focus on how shaky my hands are,” Clay hands him a shirt.

George chuckles. “Well, it’s not for everyone. Are you good with swords?”

“The best,” Clay boasts. “But dueling is a mind game. If you can psyche out your opponent, you’ve already won.”

George hums. He wrings out the next item of clothing: Tubbo’s nightshirt. “Why are you here?”

“I told you, I’m recruiting.”

“But you’re here,” George insists, “Doing laundry with me.”

“Oh.” Clay’s cheeks are ruddy, flustered, and it makes George almost proud. “Well, you’re good company.”

“I’m an orphan who complains too much,” George says. 

“It’s not complaining if you want things to change for the better,” Clay says, voice soft. “It’s not ungrateful to want a better life for yourself.”

George sucks in a breath. Does Clay know how he feels? Does he know how much it hurts to wish for something that will never come true?

Clay hands him the last shirt and stands up. “I should be going. I still have a few more things to pass out.”

“Okay,” George says. “Thanks for helping.” He stands, and realizes that Clay is actually pretty tall. It doesn’t help that he moves with a sort of self confidence that’s hard to replicate. 

“Will I see you at the festival?” Clay asks.

George shrugs. “I dunno.”

“Try to come? I’d like to see you,” Clay is too honest with his words. They prick George’s skin and tear him open, leaving a beating heart alone and unloved. 

He can’t imagine Clay knows the weight of his words; what any ounce of affection will do to a boy who has gone so long without. “I’ll try,” he promises without any commitment. 

The sun goes down on Clay’s smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: this is an au. in no way am i claiming dnf is real, nor am i claiming that any of the ccs act like this. i will also be character building the other smp members, and also a few other ccs like justaminx and kaceytron.
> 
> ocs in this story are not made after anyone and any resemblance is pure coincidence.


	5. all that glistens is not gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hope, be it never so faint, bringeth a gleam into darkness, like a little rushlight that costeth but a groat.” — Howard Pyle, The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood

Karl’s scrawl is the only readable scrawl out of almost all the merry men, though Wilbur would gladly argue against it. He transcribes both Purpled’s and Alexis’ tips for getting around the castle. “Alexis? Does this say left or lent?” 

Alexis is busy using his knife to carve out his initials on one of the standing maples. “Why would my directions ever mention the word lent?” 

Karl hums, not offended in the slightest. “Just checking.” 

The scratchy noise of quill meeting parchment is all George can hear for a moment, mind caught up in a torrent of excuses to get out of this. _You can’t. You need the money._

To leave his stepmother and take Tommy and Tubbo far away, where they can be loved and doted on and not made unequal to their older sister. George could spoil them, and they would grow up into fine young men. They wouldn’t be grumpy or bitter or standoffish or anything else George is told he’s grown up to be.

“You’ll have to watch out for Sapnap,” Alexis mumbles around his thumbnail, biting it out of nerves. 

“Is that a real name? How do you spell that?”

Alexis ignores Karl and continues, “He’s the prince’s head guard. I’ve met him before, and I’ve seen him on the training grounds. He’s sturdy, and he fights like a bear. He’s been trained to die and kill for the prince, so your best bet is staying out of his way.”

“Aren’t I stealing from the prince’s room?” George balks. “The third night? I’m taking the crown and passing it off to Fundy.”

“Yeah,” Fundy laughs. “Got pirates up on the east shore willing to pay top coin.”

“As long as the prince isn’t in his room, his guard shouldn’t be there either,” Wilbur, ever so logical, states. “He’ll be too busy preparing for his coronation.”

George picks at the frayed edge of his cloak. “Okay. Repeat the plan to me again. From the top.”

Karl taps his parchment. “Today is simple. There will be a tour of the grounds at the same time as the jousting tournament. You slip into the castle, if someone catches you, say you got lost during the tour. The west wing should be nearly completely empty, since the Prince will not be needing his quarters. Collect as much as you can and hide them in the pit on the south side, where Fundy will sneak up later and pick them up. Your biggest fault there is getting out of the castle, but it’s going to be low on security. If you exit through the servant grounds, no one will know. Drop the goods in the pit, return to the festival, watch your brother be sworn in and have a good time.”

George runs over the day in his head. “Okay. What about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow, you don’t have much to do except locate the crown itself. Figure out where it is and how much security is around it if you can. Other then that, you’re done. A few of us are going to go around pickpocketing the crowd, so you’ll have that distraction.”

“And the ball on the third night?” 

“You’ll nab the crown, leave it at the south entrance with Purpled and Alexis, who will be pretending to be the guards on duty. Purpled will take it outside and hide it halfway to the port, under the redwood tree with the beehive hanging from it. By the time the clock strikes twelve, you need to be outside, getting the crown the rest of the way, to Fundy at the pier. He leaves at one, so you can’t be late.”

“Sounds easy enough,” Alexis mumbles, cheeks ruddy. “What if we’re caught? Nottingham law is unforgiving.”

Phil, who’s been pretty silent up until now, stands up from his place of leaning against a tree. “The rest of us are running interference on the outside. We’re smart. We’re loyal. We won’t snitch. We’ll be fine, and when we leave Sherwood, they won’t be able to catch up to us.“

George likes his words, but he’s pretty sure that’s all they are. Words.

Because if any of them get caught, they’ll be executed for treason.

George tries not to think of leaving this world without Tommy and Tubbo. _You’re doing this for them,_ he tells himself. _You have to._

-

George arrives at the festival with Tommy and Tubbo. He has to drop them off at the southern courtyard to be prepped for their swearing in as squires.

“I’m tired of giving rude old governors their warmed socks and pudding. I can’t wait to train with the knights!” Tommy cheers, loud with his words and unabashed with his statement. “I’ve been a page for too long!”

“Hear, hear!” Tubbo follows up. His cloak is a little too long for him, dragging across the grass and getting small twigs stuck in the hem. George hopes that doesn’t matter to whoever swears in squires. Perhaps the chief guard?

“I’m going to miss you guys at home,” George says, voice nearly watery. “But this is good, too.”

“I’ll miss you, Gogy,” Tubbo wraps his lithe arms around George’s waist. “And don’t think we aren’t going with you and the merry men when it’s time! You’ll have two fighters on your side!”

George thinks they’d be safer in the castle, with promised heat and food. He thinks it’s selfish to drag them along with him, in a life of mercenaries and tempted fate. “We’ll see.”

-

He drops them off with the chief guard, a man named Techno, with dark, reddish hair and a scar going down the left side of his face. He’s quite scary, but a rough laugh escapes him when Tommy makes a joke, so George figures they’re in good hands.

He makes his way to the tour, which is filled with so many snobby, up-turned noses that he nearly backs out on his own. It also doesn’t help that Nottingham Castle is twice the size George thought it would be. Which means it’s going to take twice as long to get to the west wing than George calculated it would.

He breathes through his nose and tries to fit in.

The tour takes them directly to the west wing, which was not in Karl’s itinerary. George lags behind the group, which is pretty easy, since he’s clearly from Sherwood, and none of these people want to be associated with him.

There’s a nook right where everyone turns a corner, so George slips into the shadows, wraps his cloak around him, and counts to one hundred.

When the count is finished, George takes a deep breath, prays to Phil’s god, and steps into the hall.

It’s empty. Good.

He dips into the first room with confidence, prepared to look like he’s supposed to be in there. He clicks the lock behind him and turns into the room. 

This has to be the prince’s room. Emerald silk sheets, golden threads and spruce furniture. There’s a rack of formal outfits on the right side, standing up in front of the balcony window. On the other side of the room are open double doors, leading into an empty bathtub built into the ground. George steps towards it, and realizes there’s plumbing. Like, actual plumbing and a chamber pot that doesn’t have to be dumped at the end of the day.

Immediately, out of curiosity, George looks around for a portrait, wondering what the prince looks like. He’s rumored to always wear a mask at public appearances, but maybe he left a clue in his room.

There’s a portrait hanging over the dormant fireplace. It’s got to be the prince, years ago, as a boy no older than ten years old. He’s blond, sandy-haired, with bright green-grey eyes and thin brows. He’s smiling up at a woman in the picture with him, and by the crown on her head, George assumes it’s the late queen. 

If they had anything close to the relationship George had with his dad, he reckons the prince must miss her. 

George shakes his head and grabs the small satchel hanging off the backside of his belt, covered by his cloak.

He opens the jewelry box on the vanity and grabs anything that shines. He does it quickly, nimbly, and searches a few different drawers for anything else of value.

And then he’s out, sneaking back into the nook, taking a deep breath, and diving into the next room.

He doesn’t get caught.

After four rooms, the sack is full, so he takes sure steps down towards the servant’s quarters. No one bats an eyelash at him, and he exits rather easily. 

He finds the pit beneath a large rock and stuffs the sack in. Then he stands up and turns around, ready to watch Tubbo and Tommy become squires.

“George! You made it!” Clay is there, black bandana around his neck. His green-grey eyes peer into George’s quizzingly. “Why are you so far away from the festival?”

George is the best liar in the Merry Men, but he finds himself lost for words when looking at Clay. _Damn him, really._ “I got lost.”

Clay smiles like he can see right through George, but he doesn’t call him out in it “I got a little overwhelmed by the crowd. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I didn’t expect to be here,” George says.

“I’m glad you are, though.” Clay has this way of speaking like he’s boasting, like pride seeps through his skin and pours from his lungs. What is he so proud of? “You’re not leaving any time soon, are you?”

“I’m going to watch my brothers become squires.”

“You have brothers?”

“Half-brothers. You saw them the other day at the house.”

Clay seems to be calculating something in his head. “Forgive me. I thought you were their servant.”

George smirks. “I kind of am. But I work for my Stepmother. Tommy and Tubbo are her and my father’s children.”

“Sorry.” Clay shuffles from foot to foot.

“For what?” George smiles up at Clay, liking the way his bangs fall into his eyes when he looks down at him.

Clay shrugs. He rubs at the back of his neck. “I dunno. For assuming things?”

“Well, you’re forgiven. Anyway, what does a royal messenger do when they aren’t out delivering messages?” 

-

Dream thinks George is the most handsome man he’s ever seen. And he’s here like moonlight, shining in his navy cloak. Talking to him like he’s interesting, like he’s normal, like he’s just another boy and not the future king.

Dream smiles. “I talk to cute boys.”

“Yeah?” George has this look on his face like he’s skeptical, and it makes Dream want to dig down deep, figure out why the person in front of him can’t see the beauty of his own self.

Dream huffs. “Do you think I’m lying?”

“Well…” George shrugs at being caught. “Maybe you’re just being charming.”

“Ah, but in order for me to be charming, _you_ would have to be charmed.” Dream brightens. He leans down towards the brown-eyed boy and bats his lashes. “Are you?”

George steps back, red hues along his cheeks. “I’m going to go check on my brothers.” He moves past Dream and heads back towards the crowd.

“I’ll see you later, then?” Dream calls, and he hopes the desperation in his voice isn’t as obvious as it seems.

George throws the words over his shoulder, like he couldn’t care less. “Later!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: this is an au. in no way am i claiming dnf is real, nor am i claiming that any of the ccs act like this. i will also be character building the other smp members, and also a few other ccs like justaminx and kaceytron.
> 
> ocs in this story are not made after anyone and any resemblance is pure coincidence
> 
> thank you for reading! pls feel free to leave a comment! it would mean a lot <3


	6. in the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “But sorrow can come to any kingdom, no matter how happy.“ — Fairy Godmother, Cinderella

George shuffles into the crowd. He levels his breathing, hoping no one notices how red his cheeks must be.  
Damn him, really. Who is Clay to make George flustered?

He’s a noble. An employee of the king. If anything, George should be keeping his distance. Sure, the first day is done. But the real money is going to come from the crown, and from then on, he’s going to be a fugitive. He’ll be a mercenary shown no mercy. And Clay certainly won’t pay attention to him then.

The crowd around him cheers, so George zones back in. The prince has arrived, his jade-colored jerkin and brown vest fitted to his slim waist. He’s got on his mask, a cream-colored silk veil that keeps his face from the common eye.

George ignores him and looks for his brothers.

Tommy and Tubbo are lined up with a myriad of other teenagers, each of them looking more excited than the last. George feels heavy pride in his heart as his brothers meet his eye and wave. He waves back, knowing every single minute of danger is worth it if it gives those two a better life.

There’s no way George is going to let them come with him.

The prince looks tall, George thinks in passing. He stands at attention while his father addresses the crowd, “Good day, Nottingham! I hope the first day of festivities have been found satisfactory.”

George knows why the king doesn’t mention Sherwood, or the other surrounding areas, but it makes him feel like an outcast anyway. He rolls his shoulders back and hopes he doesn’t look out of place. He hopes the king and the prince don’t notice him — can’t tell that he’s so clearly not one of them.

The crowd is cheering, and George hasn’t caught what the king has said. It sounds like it’s time to promote the pages, so George leans forward, keeping his eyes on his brothers.

Prince Dream has these special pins, circled with a hanging jade ribbon. He pins them to each of the teens, one by one, and spends a few minutes talking to each of them, lowering himself to their height, as if the crowd isn’t even watching.

He’s humbling himself, and George takes notice, because in all his life he’s never seen a noble stoop down to a commoner’s level. An employee’s level. 

There’s a trumpet’s sound when the last squire is given their position, and as soon as the ceremony closes, Tommy and Tubbo run directly to George, grasping him around the shoulders and chattering excitedly about everything they’ve seen and heard throughout the day.

George feels overwhelmed. He knows that when this festival is over, he’ll probably never see his brothers again. He’ll be permanently on the run, for a life away from his step-mother. But his brothers will be living in a castle, with a net of safety over them forever. 

They’ll be safe, and George will be far enough away that he won’t be able to mess it all up.

-

Dream tugs the veil off of his face as soon as his bedroom door closes behind him. He sighs, back pressed against white marble, and tries to collect his thoughts.

Two more days. Two more days of freedom, and then he’s tied forever to some noble who will never love him.

Just as unlovable as his mother, Dream’s father would tell him any time he made a mistake.

His chest clenches at the thought of his mother ever thinking herself unlovable. Perhaps loved by Dream the most, she was the epitome of kindness and generosity — everything Nottingham has lacked since her death.

Dream huffs out a mix of a sigh and a sob, and yanks open his jewelry drawer to find his mother’s signet ring — the only thing of hers he has left.

The drawer is empty.

Completely empty, save one leather ring he had made with Sapnap when they were young. The knight has a matching one.

But everything of monetary value has been stolen, down to his silver necklaces and golden rights. The signet, his mother’s, with it’s emeralds and shining gold, has been stolen.

Dream slams the drawer shut and stares up at his mother’s portrait. It could be anywhere now. Everyone within the surrounding cities have gone in and out of the castle grounds for the festival. Dream reckons it wouldn’t be hard to skip in and out undetected.

And he isn’t the type of person to care for shiny things, but the signet ring is all he has left of his mother’s things. No one even knows he took it, a young boy desperate for a piece of his mother. After his father insisted the queen’s belongings be destroyed, Dream grabbed what he could without being noticed.

So he can’t even tell anyone the ring is missing. His father would hate him even more than he already does. 

Unlovable. Unlikable, too. That’s all Dream is to anyone in this damned castle.

He grabs his cloak and leaves.

-

The soles of his boots are thin enough for him to feel the rough bumps of cobblestone against his feet. He can hear coyotes howl from the woods, and it sends a slight shiver down his spine.

And he’s stupid, he knows. Impulsive in all the worst ways, because he’s running off to see a servant boy who lives in the middle of Sherwood. George might not even like him; might only speak to him out of necessity. But he’s the only person Dream wants to see right now, so he walks in the dead of night, hoping he isn’t wrong in his intuition.

The cottage looks more intimidating at night, with its brick chimney looming over, blocking the moon from sight. 

Dream picks up a few pebbles and weighs them in his hand. It’s really only one guess to find out which window is George’s. 

He chooses the window with a flower on the sill, limp and dying, but still a vibrant yellow. He tosses the pebble.

And another. And another. And another.

The curtains move. The windowpane is pushed out, and there he is. George, leaning over the sill, eyes still half-closed as he looks down. “Clay?”

Just his sleepy voice is enough for Dream to feel his throat close. With nerves, with excitement, with tangible fondness. “Can you come down?”

“Yeah,” George says, looking back into his room nervously. “Just give me a minute.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the longer break and the fact that this is only a filler chapter. i have been lacking inspo lately but i think i got it back?? anyways, thanks for reading if you do!!

**Author's Note:**

> hey squad


End file.
